New House of Dorian Gray
by all u need is books
Summary: Dorian Gray gets a new mansion- and the architect in charge happens to a certain somebody who's known for mystery and music, and infamous for the blood he had left behind.


What a view- Paris is as beautiful as Dorian had heard. The window of the mansion on a hill by Paris was filled with a sight almost as perfect as it's current viewer. Strangely enough, even though he'd come there to "monitor" the renovation of his new house multiple hours ago, he hadn't looked out the window even once up to that moment. He was enjoying himself so far- the builders were muscular and sweaty, just the way he liked them. Though he must admit, the hunt wasn't very amusing that day- they were all generic, easy prey. Dorian licked his beautiful upper lip as he thought of the excitement unique prey brings to the chase.

He looked back inside, shaking off his thoughts. He was just starting to plan how he would ravage his fourth of the day, when he came in: tall and mysterious, his body language composed and suspecting, yet arrogant, his eyes revealing intelligence while his face is covered by a mask that Dorian's experienced eyes recognize as hand made. The architect's voice and way of speaking revealed experience in singing as he ordered builders around; the grace of his movements as he directed them showed the dexterity of an artist or musician, maybe even both. The picturesque teen's mouth began to water- unique prey indeed. He seemed to be an intellectual: Dorian could not wait to melt his brain into goo.

Dorian had to wait until the job on his house was done- a second thought had told him it'd be problematic if the architect in charge of the entire renovation would get too attached. Something about human emotions and heartbreaking or whatever.

But the awaited day had finally come- the job was finished, and Dorian generously threw a party for his employees (he's kind and beautiful. Just kidding. He's only beautiful.). While ignoring the flirting of the eleven employees he'd gotten to know more closely, he hosted as perfectly as all he does, while giving extra attention to a certain mystery-boy.

After multiple hours, the workers finally went home- even the persistent flirtatious ones, and the ones who'd stay by the food table until a) there won't be any food left or b) they'd be removed by force.

The prey turned to leave with the late workers. "Wait, architect? Do you have a bit more time this evening?"

The man stopped walking and turned around to see a young beauty sitting on the couch, leaning on it's side. The teen smiled warmly and patted the seat beside him, making his body language as welcoming as possible.

"Yes, I think so… why?" the stranger said as he walked up to the couch. He sat down a bit farther from Dorian than he was supposed to, wearing an untrusting expression.

Dorian didn't let it faze him. "Well, first of all, you never told me your name."

"It's Eric."

"Eric~ so you're an architect for a living? How long have you worked with this agency?" Dorian shifted on the sofa to face him.

"Not long. I've… had a few changes in my life recently." He didn't seem happy to think about it.

"These thoughts don't seem to make you happy…" Eric chuckled bitterly. "Maybe you could do without thinking for the evening?"

"What do you m-" but Dorian was already on his knees on the sofa, closing the distance between them, and putting a hand on Eric's chest- "m- mean?"

Dorian leaned over his prey and whispered in his ear, knowing the feeling of his breath on the other man's neck would be driving him mad. "I'm sure you already know."

The man beneath him gasped. Dorian looked into his eyes, who were shining so desperately that Dorian's ego grew even larger than it's average everyday size.

Then, suddenly, the prey closed his eyes and seemed to shake off the feeling. He slipped from the couch and stood up, leaving the hunter to fall gracelessly on the sofa, having rested his weight on this idiotic bastard.

Dorian was burning with frustration. He was so close! And this little. Fucking. Idiot.

There are knives in his kitchen. 'Eric' wouldn't be his first.

He took a deep breath and ended his second-long almost-tantrum. He turned to his prey while putting on an innocent, hurt expression. "What happened? Do you dislike me?"

"No it's not you it's… I'm…" he looked away from Dorian. "It's too good to be true. People… don't want me."

"And is that a reason to break my heart?"

The architect looked back at him in surprise.

"Would you withold yourself from me for the way some other people have treated you?"

"Well I, um, I…"

Dorian stepped off of the couch in a subtly sexy way, so subtle you'd think it's unintentional.

"Oh, loosen up, you. Won't you like a bit of fun?" He winked seductively, knowing he'd already won.

A pause, and the architect slowly leaned above him, and touched his short, flawless nose with the big bump in his mask where the nose would be. Dorian kissed his prey, then moved his lips to skim their way to his cheekbones, through the neck's side and onto the nape of his neck, where he gave Eric a long, soft kiss. All the while, the other man's hands were tightening their bodies together, first with gentle, fragile caution and then with utter desperation. Something about the way these hands were working throughout his torso gave him the feeling that they pet lovingly as well as they can choke in bloodlust, much like his started sucking on the nape of the architect's neck, and then realized something:

They were in his home. What if the man would want to stay? What if he started to clean the house and imply commitment? Oh no, they can't do it here…!

Dorian stopped to look into his victim's eyes with a playful expression.

"I want to show you a place."

The teen tried to think up a place for them to be while taking the architect by the hand and going out of the house. He didn't quite know the area, but the trees over there looked like part of a forest. Luckily, they were. It was a bit strange, how willingly this man followed Dorian -an almost- complete stranger- to what could be a perfect murder. From experience, he could get away with it if he wanted to. On the other hand, the dick had always ruled over the brain.

In the depth of the forest, only seen by the birds and only judged by the faraway stars, a pure- faced sinner forced his prize's back to a tree and kissed the breath out of his lungs. In seconds, the century-old-teen's shirt was already on the floor, and hands were going through his hair, all over his skin. Dorian started a thorough research beneath the clothes of his mystery man, from the the chest downwards. Then 'Eric' pulled his hands from Dorian, quickly unbuttoned his shirt and continued his previous task- that is, mashing the bodies together like there's no tomorrow. The teen wondered what instrument the man plays, and how well he must play it, with that dexterity and speed which he's showing tiny bits of. He could think of a certain flute he'd like him to play, but he already has other plans for this moved his mouth from the architect's, whether because kissing upwards for so long started hurting his neck, or because he wanted a closer look on what the open shirt revealed. His lips moved around the body in front of him in a downward course as straight as him, that is to say, often going sideways and with occasional circles. The musician weakened his pressure on Dorian's skin and was now gently petting everywhere from the young man's belt line to the tips of his hair, softly and lovingly, not leaving a millimeter untouched. The teen slipped a hand beneath Eric's underwear and held his ass. He couldn't tell what was more delightful: the firm roundness in his hand or the loud gasp above him. Either way, it was clear who was going to be top tonight ;) .

Dorian woke up the morning after before the man beside him. He was slightly worried the man would have difficulty sitting in the near future- just kidding. He didn't care. He quickly and quietly put on his clothes -he had decades of practice avoiding consequences- and was turning to leave, when he noticed yesterday's one lying on the ground. Or, more specifically, the special white mask on his face. This prey took a while to capture, and yet, he knew so little about him. Looking at him now, he seems to be at his late twenties to early thirties. But Dorian didn't quite care about the man's age or his life story- he was curious about his mysterious, white, hand- made mask.

Dorian could, technically, care less about the man's privacy, but only if he detested the concept of him keeping his privacy, and hated privacy in general. The teen gingerly removed the mask off of the sleeping face in front of him, and looked at it in the morning light seeping through the leaves.

Only it wasn't quite a face. It was a horrible, twisted, agonizing sight, and it was somewhat stuck to a head, but Dorian couldn't quite call it a face. Yet it was staring at him, eyes closed but bone peering, surrounded by scars and veins and things that were supposed to be skin, should have been skin, all where they weren't supposed to be, together presenting something utterly non-human.

It was as if his own soul was looking at him, reminding him of the horrors he had left in his trail.

Dorian put the mask back gently, not to wake the sleeping man. He put the strap back as it were before. He walked to his house, not glanceing half a glance behind him. When he entered, he locked the door after him.


End file.
